Again, a warning for violent imagery.

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Chapter Seven

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Adam held the phone to his ear for several long seconds, listening to the stutter of the dial tone, trying to relax the muscles in his neck. Finally, he drew it away from his head and dropped it on its hook, letting it rattle with the force. Then he picked it up and let it rattle again. In his peripheral, he could see Malloy and Rothman exchanging glances.

"Problem, Sarge?"

Adam grunted. "Obviously." He rested his hands on his hips, trying to keep his agitation in check. Sweeping his eyes around the empty bar, he let them linger on the spot where the beer mugs had toppled from the counter, remembering Grady's face in that split second before—hurt and lost, like he was eight years old all over again. He looked back at Rothman, blinking to shake the image. "We need an APB out on Grady… and Miguel. He'll be gone by the time we get there but we should send a unit by Luis's place just in case."

Malloy leaned forward on her elbows. "You think Miguel's seen Grady?"

"Seen him. Talked to him." Adam waved a hand in the air. "Or he's with him right now and won't say." He rubbed the hand down his head, hooking his fingers on the back of his neck. "All he would give me was some song and dance about not being able to tell me anything because Grady might need a place to go if I can't help him." Drawing close to the bar, he dropped his hand and knocked the surface with his fist. "I swear, if I'd known the way those two would influence each other, I would have tried harder to keep them apart."

Malloy frowned. "What are you talking about? You never tried to keep them apart. If anything you've encouraged them to be there for each other."

Adam gave her a look. "Now you too?"

"Adam," she countered. "If Grady is with Miguel, isn't that good thing? If he really wanted to do something stupid, he'd stay away from all of us."

"Right, because the two of them are known for their calm and rational decision making. You'll forgive me if I'm not comforted."

"That's not fair." Malloy tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and stepped closer. "Look, if I got the gist of what Miguel just told you, maybe he's right and you just don't want to admit it. With Miguel may not be exactly where you want him, but for whatever reason, Grady doesn't feel he can bring this to you yet. Maybe Miguel is as close as he can get."

"But that's exactly what I don't understand." Adam pounded the bar again. "Grady should know by now that he can come to me with anything, but for some reason he doesn't. Even with Nigel and that damn Circle of Death, he went to Miguel. He can't trust me with whatever the hell is going on, but Miguel? Oh, no, Miguel he can trust. Miguel he can go to."

"Adam, that's not fair, to you or Grady. We don't know enough of what's going on to say what this is about. It may have nothing to do with trust. Grady has some dark secrets, we both know that, and whatever's going on, maybe he just needs some time to think it through. He's been misguided in the past but he loves you, and you and I both know that wins out for him every time."

"Yeah, Sarge," Rothman spoke up hesitantly. "Didn't you tell me once that Grady sometimes does the wrong thing for the right reasons, but he usually comes to you in the end? Maybe this is one of those times."

"No," said Adam, shaking his head. "No, you don't…" He shoved off the bar and turned around. Taking a deep breath, he tried to slow the rush of frustration through his blood. "You don't understand."

For a space, there was silence. Then the soft creak of Rothman shifting on his stool and the gentle sound of Malloy taking a step. "Adam, what is it?"

Unlocking the clench of his teeth, Adam struggled to get the words out. "I didn't find him," he finally said, turning back to face them.

Malloy's eyebrows cinched together. "What are you talking about?"

"Grady," he said. "I didn't find him. He found me."

Malloy's expression drew light with comprehension. "Adam," she began.

"No." He didn't let her continue. "I left an eight-year-old boy behind in a hell most of the world can't even imagine. And every day since… all those years I kept thinking about him... wondering where he was. Always hoping that he was okay. That he was somewhere happy. Someplace safe. But all my worst fears—everything I didn't want to picture happening, every situation I didn't even want to consider him being stuck in, turned out to be exactly where he was."

Glancing from Malloy to Rothman and back, he took another steadying breath, voice dropping slightly. "And now that I know… I picture what he must have been thinking during all that time. I picture him wondering why I never came back for him—why I didn't help him when he needed it. And I can't help but think, if I'd just found him—by a year, six months, a day—but if I'd just found him instead of him having to find me… maybe he'd trust me enough to come to me with stuff like this."

"Adam, you never stopped looking," Malloy said quietly.

He started to nod, then shook his head, pressing his hands into the bar. "But in my own way, I gave up on him. When I finally left Vietnam, I told myself he'd already been processed out of the country and that'd I'd find him back in the States, or Canada, but I never should have left until I knew for sure. And by then, it was too late. I didn't know where to keep looking." He snorted, leaning forward on his palms. "You know, when he first showed up here, going after Hardin—I was so hurt that he hadn't looked for me right away. So… so frustrated that he hadn't come to me sooner. Angry even. But what was he supposed to think? He was eight years old when I left. He didn't know if I really wanted him. For all he knew, I'd taken the first chance I got not to be saddled with a kid and took off. Maybe part of him still isn't sure that I did look for him. He would trust me otherwise, wouldn't he? He would come to me." He curled his knuckles under, feeling the press of marble against his skin, silence retaking the space around his words.

Malloy opened her mouth a bare fraction, then closed it, holding his gaze.

Rothman was frowning, hand loose around the base of his coffee cup, a distant look on his face. "Maybe he did," he mumbled.

Adam took his eyes from Malloy and looked over. "What was that?"

Rothman focused and glanced up. "I, uh, I said… maybe he did… go to you, I mean."

Adam frowned, straightening his stance, waiting.

"Last week," Rothman explained, hesitantly clearing his throat. "Grady came into the station. He was… he seemed… just freaked out, I guess. When he first came in, for a minute I actually thought he was going to pass out right there in the bullpen." Rothman tapped his cup, glancing down absently, like he was replaying the memory in his mind, then refocused on Adam's face. "He was looking for you."

Adam came around the bar slowly. "Why didn't you tell me about this?"

Swiveling on the stool to maintain eye contact, Rothman answered. "It was the same day as the Foley shooting. You were downtown with Pine and the commissioner. I offered to call and get you back to the station but Grady said not to. And after that—I mean, the station was a mad house at the time. I assumed whatever it was he needed, he would catch up with you about it later." He tapped the coffee cup again, middle finger bouncing against the base as he glanced briefly at Malloy. "Guess he didn't."

Adam stared, processing the information. He stepped back carefully, sinking into the chair at the table behind him, a hollow sensation forming in his gut. He tried to remember when it was he'd first started thinking maybe Grady wasn't doing so well. He tried to think when it was he'd first started thinking there might be something to worry about. "Last week?" he asked.

Rothman nodded.

Adam's frown deepened. Had he even seen Grady that day? Talked to him? Anything?

He'd seen Malloy that morning, at the bar before work, and Miguel a little later, when he'd come by the station to finally sign the witness statements regarding the G-Rock's attack at Luis's house. Then the call had come in, and all the details of the remainder of the day became eclipsed by that crime scene.

The mother and father, Foley and his wife, wearing contrasting shades of grey—shot while kneeling in the front foyer, blindfolds over their eyes. The girl with the auburn hair, shot upstairs in the bedroom with the green-painted walls. And the boy. The eight-year-old. Brown hair. Pale skin. Skinny knees curled up to his chin as he sat slumped over on his side in the back hallway, blood under his head. Blood spatter on the carpet. On the wall. Blood spatter across the deep blue of his crisp, clean t-shirt.

Adam had thought of Grady then. He'd gone out to his vehicle and sat with his knuckles curled around the steering wheel for what felt like hours, jaw clenched so tight, he thought he might crack teeth.

"Sarge?" prompted Rothman. "What do you want me to do? You still want that APB?"

Slowly, after a long minute, Adam nodded his head, then stopped, looking up to meet Rothman's eyes. He remembered Rothman at the crime scene. He flashed on an image of Rothman standing motionless at the base of the stairs as the M.E. pushed past him to get up to the girl's room with the gurney. Saying nothing when Adam came back inside. No judgements. They'd finished processing the scene and returned to the station, trying to get as much information as they could before the story hit the news.

Then chaos descended. And somewhere in the midst of that chaos Grady had come looking for him and found Rothman instead. He'd come looking just hours after those murders and Adam was suddenly trying to figure out—would it be too much of a coincidence if those two acts were related, or too much of a coincidence if they weren't?

He licked his lips and finally spoke. "Kelsey's back down at the docks running more interviews into the break-ins. Find her, then head to the station—see if you can pull phone records for the dojo and the bar. Do an ATL on Miguel. See what you can find at Luis's. Maybe check the hang-out on Alameda. Get back here when you can."

"You got it," said Rothman, slipping off his stool.

Adam took a breath, rubbing a hand across his chin.

"What do you think is going on?" asked Malloy.

Pausing by the door, Rothman turned to hear the answer.

"I wish I had a clue," said Adam.

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tbc